


Release the Dogs

by someonesgrlbomb



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonesgrlbomb/pseuds/someonesgrlbomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a threesome-bound fanfic, in three shifting POV parts.  <br/>Brad keeps himself mostly squared away in Iraq.  With a little help from Ray, and Nate, and Ray/Nate</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Release the Dogs - the First Thing That Happened

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to amoama for initial help and huge giant appreciation for accol who gave this a thorough beta-ing multiple times. I made plenty of changes since she saw it last and I bear full responsibility for all remaining errors and annoyances. It may be worth pointing out that my Brad is probably more influenced by the GK text than is usual ‘round here, maybe. It’s also possible that is a convenient excuse for getting these boys to play how I wanted them to. This is all pretend anyway.

_“Having watched him cry a few days ago after the shooting of the shepherd, I suspect it’s not always easy being the Iceman.”_     _-Evan Wright, Generation Kill_

Artillery was illuminating portions of the otherwise dark horizon, softening up a town Ray figured they’d hit tomorrow or whenever.  He knew better than to believe anything he’d been told would be happening in anything other than the next two minutes.  They would probably hit it sometime, as it would be in the path of the trail they were blazing northward, west of the main invasion line that was heading straight for Baghdad.  Hopefully they would plow through it unscathed, as they had all the other places.  Somehow.  Miraculously.  

'Cause they're mutherfucking badasses.  And…whatever.

Brad was watching the show, too, leaning over the Humvee hood right next to Ray, who was more toward the front of the hood leaning sideways, one boot up on the bumper.  Brad was in his trancelike observation mode and spoke as if unaware he was verbalizing his thoughts.  But only as if.  "Nothing subtle about the message we are sending out there."

Ray barely registered what Brad said, buzzing between the ears from the Ripped Fuel/caffeine concoction he’d been digesting for days to keep going.  He just kept staring at the distant flashes of light and mildly wondering if he would end up there and how it might fit with the general journey they’d been on, the mission, the whole weird….

"Reminds me of you, Ray," Brad added.  Ray's ears pricked up to tune in better, hearing his name from Brad’s lips.  "Almost nothing you do is subtle."

Ray chuckled a bit, shrugged shoulders.  So fun to be with Brad in war, to be with a competent TL, to be with someone who knows Ray well.  Brad is so great to be around and to work with when he’s not pissy, which isn’t too often, but, really, forgiveable.  Cause Brad?  Pretty great.

Brad added quietly but deliberately, “Except."

Everything fucking Brad does is fucking deliberate so Ray bit.  "Except?" he parroted.  “Except what?  Dude, I am all kinds of motherfucking subtle.  Ask any Hajji I've shot at.  Bullets coming at 'em like all, oh, what?  What was that?  And they think maybe it was just like a fly buzzing around their head, and next thing they know, they see their brains spilling out on the ground, and they're like, damn, this mortal wound I just received was really subtly delivered.  You might even say smooth.  You might even say..."

"Shut the fuck up, Ray.  It's your actual homosexuality that's subtle."

Ray knew Brad.  Ray knew jokes about being gay.  This was Brad not joking.

Brad continued in his quiet monotone.  "It oozes from your eyes as much as it dribbles off your chin when you eat, like, it makes me think you like having your mouth so full of jizz you can't contain it.  And Jesus, when you hand me the comms, you’re so fucking touchy-feely.  But above all, Ray, here’s the thing.  You're  _really_  tuned into me.  I do appreciate that, don't get me wrong.  An RTO should do that, should strive to tune into his TL like he tunes frequencies.  But what you do?”  Brad shook his head.  “So beyond that."

Ray should have panicked at this threat, but true to his gift of calmness under fire, he just shook his head dismissively, razzing his lips.  He then rolled his eyes and added, "Whatever."

"Listen, much as it pains me to say, you're good.  Very subtle.  But as with all things, you're not as good as me." Brad broke out an ambiguously evil grin.

In his silent stun, Ray considered whether Brad was sharing useful intel or was just fucking with him.  Ray was a motherfucking brilliant RTO and yes, his talents included organically built-in gaydar, for Christsakes.  But it was possible the Iceman could fly under that.  He might be The One in that regard.  Not the LT, for example.  But maybe Brad.

Brad went on.  "So you know,  _if_ I felt  _any_  reciprocal desire to get myself off with any of a variety of man-on-man acts of combat relief that may be circulating in your mind, and may be increasingly tempting as this war advances into some absurdist plane, the reality is that those temptations have to remain on lock down.  I remind you that designs on being active duty Marine fuckbuddies with anyone, Ray, just have to wait."

"Well yeah," Ray quipped, now shifting easily into the homoerotic banter, because that was just too much to be possibly real, and now Brad was just launching into the theoreticals of DADT they all tossed at each other all the time.  Sure, whatever.  Still.  "But, I mean, how long of a wait?  The absurdity you're talking about is, like, really worth considering.  Cause so much about the Marine Corps is such utter retard bullshit, and it's really apparent now that we're in this war.  It really has me questioning what rules are really the ones we have to follow.  ROEs are clear as mud, grooming standards are waaaaay overvalued.  Shit doesn't make sense, yo.  So, I'm asking, do Marine fuckbuddies living this retarded invasion really have to wait till just the end of the invasion?  Till they're out of the Marines?"

"Nah." Brad was now whisper quiet, turning his eyes from the horizon and his whole body hunching down and directing its energies into Ray's space.  "It has to wait till hell freezes over."  Ray grinned.  This was consistent with reality.  But then, reality cracked a little when Brad added, "Because Ray, there is  _no way_  you have it in you to be what I would need, now, or in the future."  Brad held Ray's confused gaze a moment, then walked off toward Espera's Humvee.

Ray checked.  Walt and Reporter seemed still asleep in their graves and Trombley was away on a detail.  Ray didn't know what to think, so gave in to the floatation of the Ripped Fuel and wondered if he’d now ingested enough of it to have hallucinated that whole thing.  He proceeded to lose himself in the beauty of the glowing destruction raining down a few kilometers ahead.  Never mind his stomach was unsettled and his skin was crawling to be touched because of so much deprivation – limited food, limited sleep, limited mobility in the MOPP suit, limited capacity to control his fate...If asked to drive into a death trap, well, that was the job and his fate was tied to that.  He understood and accepted this.  But there were  _ways_ of driving into death traps that they’d learned, and not bothering to apply those lessons was annoying and frustrating and… _hell_  it really sucked.  It was _his_  life, after all.  Usually Ray lived with a pretty good portion of frustration under his skin, but the invasion was managing to spread it to his viscera.  He really didn't need this layer of confusing shit from Brad, hallucination or not.

Goddammit he would actually love to need all kinds of shit from Brad.  But he wasn't letting that happen.  Was he?  Fuck.  Fucking Brad.

For the next few days, Ray had to deal with the fact it had been real because Brad hissed more taunts in Ray's ear from time to time, mercilessly not touching when he did so.  Just getting right into his ear with his words and breath, leaning in. 

Example #1, against the away-side of the Humvee when parked in a herringbone formation:   
"If you're wondering, I'm not really thinking any more about it.  I know your whisky tango perverted mind is fixed on my ass or my hands, but my assessment is complete.  You have some good skills, but I don’t think you would be strong enough.  You know, mentally, mostly.  Then again, can you imagine who would be?  I'd be a celibate homo, no one able to manage me.  No one is able to get behind me, for fuck’s sake.  I ask you, Ray, who could get  _behind_  me?  Who?"

It was so much classic Brad verbiage and no action that it remained plausible Brad was just fucking with Ray.  The Iceman  _so would_ amuse himself with seeing how far he could carry something loaded to a target such as Ray.  This uncertainty was made possible by the general homo-obsessions pervading every other conversation all the guys were having.

Example #2, in the Humvee when it was just them:  
"Four minutes.  Four minutes, Ray.  It takes you a consistent four minutes to accomplish your combat jacks.  Doesn't speak well to your creativity, or ability for some dominance and assertion.  Its poor control, no awareness of pace, some routine you’re stuck in.  Too bad.  Drawn out and denied - now  _that,_ that eventually causes a worthy orgasm.”

Though it was maddening, it was at least something else to think about rather than all that other invasion-related bullshit, like what an increasingly tragi-comical parade it was of confusing orders and pointless missions and wrong turns and busting forward without having all the intel in hoopty Humvees while Iraqi tanks might be waiting for them.  Maybe it was Brad’s combat stress reaction.  Maybe it was true.  Maybe it wasn’t true, but a good response anyway would be to take Brad up on his challenges to get him to knock it the fuck off.  Maybe.

Example #3, and Ray could not fucking remember where they were for this one:  
“There are some, Ray, who only engage if someone else initiates, because then, someone else is taking responsibility.  It’s kind of bullshit - two consenting adults are equally responsible for fucking.  But the role of letting someone else take some god damned control and make shit happen and make it happen  _well_  - it has its appeal.  I can’t see the person taking control ever being your country-loving retard ass.  Country is for pussies.”  Brad seemed to be dissociating a bit, talking aloud again as if unaware of it, maybe really unaware this time for real.  "Five minutes not in charge.  How can I expect you to understand that?"

Despite mulling it all over pretty constantly in every available crack in his brain, generally Ray did not respond much when Brad dug at him with these thoughts.  Just kept looking ahead and waiting for the moment to pass.  Maybe Ray mustered an eye roll.  But Ray knew whatever he was doing, he was probably giving everything away to a curve wrecking Recon Marine like Brad.  But at least Ray kept the objective evidence of his response tucked away.

An upside to this new torturous existence was that Ray’s combat jacks now went better, but probably this advantage was not worth it given the frustration it was to be the Iceman's bitch in every way  _except._  And now Ray was never sure whether Brad was watching...and timing.  Ray didn’t care who watched him jack off in passing or heard or whatever, but, seriously, being timed?  So, he worked to vary things, visualizing what he thought Brad might be talking about.  That part helped.  Fucking Brad.  Yeah, and now he really meant that phrase that way AND that way.

Ray hung in under these circumstances as long as he could.  It was fucking admirable really.  But then, one day, one time, exactly because it was what Brad was after all along, probably, god dammit, Ray's Other Brain took over his body and led it to a bold, potentially stupid advance, an instinctive impulse that might have been wrong but it was just  _time_. 

Brad was again invading Ray’s space to shower him with hot breath and further remind he probably couldn’t begin to envision the discipline needed for true satisfaction.  Instead of standing still, desperately trying to continue his charade of denial as his brain screamed  _really really really yes oh fuck yes_ , Ray pressed his body into Brad’s in their face to face, interlaced-leg stance against the back of a supply truck.  It was barely any actual effort but Ray was amply rewarded when he felt Brad’s erection leading the contact.

Ha!  So he wasn’t just fucking with Ray!

And also, holy fucking  _shit_!  He  _wasn’t_  just fucking with Ray!

Brad seemed mildly surprised but allowed it, did not defend his space.  Ray didn't really know how to move anymore, but at least he got his answers.  Brad seemed to be waiting, one eyebrow ever so slightly raised.   After one breath, which was among the longest of Ray's life, Brad, the lumbering motherfucker, backed away, like his erection meant nothing, like Ray was the only sorry sap for whom this parting would be difficult and seemingly a crazy choice.  And off he walked.

That inch Ray took, though, was freaking retard genius, because after that, Brad next came at Ray with a different set of assumptions.  Brad now expressed his consideration of whether, when the time came, Ray would be able to be strong and ready to do what Brad needed him to do.    _When_ the time came _._

So the day after that (probably - who the fuck knew - days and nights blurred), as Brad delivered another diatribe on Ray’s dim potential to be satisfying in a future  _that was certainly coming_ , Ray responded, “Yeah, Brad?” and grabbed Brad's ass hard with one hand.  He pulled Brad in so they were beyond danger close for grinding action.  A smirk crept across Brad's mouth and he closed his eyes in a relaxed and trusting kind of way.  Pouncing on that reflexively, Ray pulled Brad's head down into a hard kiss and spun them around, pressing Brad to the wall.  Ray lapped into Brad, who was passive, like he was in his own personal slow motion as he reacted to Ray’s more manic advances.  Ray thought he'd double time it just to make up for not balls'ing up sooner and doing this, and just in case Brad would back out.  Ray scrambled to get all he could, while he could.  Brad’s face was firm and clean feeling to press into, and his mouth was hot as they passed a few grains of sand back and forth between tongues and teeth. 

Soon after some general making out and unleashing of weapons-grade hormones stiffening his cock to yet another Marine example of a donkey dick, Ray needed to move on.  Ray pulled back from Brad's mouth, saying, "Yeah, you wanted me.  Of fucking course."  Then he spun them so his own back was to the wall and he pushed Brad downward.  Brad was pliant but protested a smidge by looking right and left.  "I've got your six," Ray reassured, trying to shift into a growl and convey total annoyance he had to tell that to Brad.  "It’s time I show you how wrong you've been about me.  You can't wait to find out anyway, can you?"  Ray’s brain almost exploded over handily succeeding in guiding Brad down to his knees.

The brain explosion disabled the alarms that were trying to go off after detecting how far in over his head he probably was.  Somewhere they were whining out warnings, but they weren't needed.  His brain wasn't needed.  It turned out to be amazingly true that an aching dick can take over and make things happen.  A lifetime of power deprivation stored up in him now served as a resource to draw upon, and weeks in the desert, and days and days so close to Brad and then especially after Brad started the taunts...Ray had plenty of ways to move forward. 

In a voice Ray could not believe managed to be so smooth, he said, "I know you really want this sweet candy stick.  Go on and unwrap it.  You know you want to."

Brad was squatting and opening Ray’s fly before Ray finished speaking.  Ray placed both hands on Brad's head, and then teasingly moved his now freed dick toward and away from the Iceman a centimeter or two, unable to stop himself from some thrusting action, but aware he couldn’t just let Brad get what he wanted.  He was supposed to tease, right?  Right.  "Ok, go on, Brad, take a lick.  Just a little lick."

Ray gasped a little when Brad made contact.  "I must taste sweet after all the candy I've put away since the invasion started.  I probably fucking sweat sugar.  Probably shoot it too.  Tell me, how did it taste?"

So help him, Ray saw Brad lick his lips but shrug.

"I asked you a question," Ray asked, feigning annoyance and gripping Brad's chin.

"Good," Brad said quietly, looking up with gratitude, relaxation.  He looked at Ray's dick again, mesmerized, curious.  "Really good."

"You might get some more if you just do what your Ray-Ray...Oh fuck," Ray steadied himself at the decent push against his slit Brad had suddenly and overly-eagerly delivered with his tongue, but honestly?  It was insanely hot to look down and see Brad there, so beautiful, peaceful, bobbing at his dick and looking hungry and like he liked it there.  Recovering, Ray pushed at Brad’s forehead and manufactured some disappointment to say, "Brad."

"Sorry," Brad shrugged like it was so obvious why anyone would transgress in his position.

“Now, when I say go, you will lick a solid, and I mean, solid, unbroken sloppy stripe down the bottom of my dick, and then do not stop -  do NOT stop - till you get to the other side of my balls.  Comprende?  Ready?  Go.  Oh my God!"  Ray rose up to his tippy toes and held his dick up for Brad as he laid some precision, wet hot tongue along the underside of his rock hard cock and then continued surprisingly thoroughly across Ray's balls, eliciting a squeak from Ray.  Bringing his eyeballs back to center, Ray sputtered, "Pretty good.  Now lick your way back.”   Ray tried to command this with a steady voice.  Tried like fuck.

At least during the lick back, Ray managed to swallow his vocalizations and just send his lips outward into a giant open mouth o-shape while his eyes squinted shut.  When it was over, Ray cleared his throat and commanded, "Again."

Brad complied with vigor.

"More," Brad requested quietly when he'd finished the salty circuit, eyes on Ray's cock and its rightward bend in front of his face.

Ray found that an excellent idea and was drawn in.  "You want more?  Awww.  Go ahead, Brad," and Ray pushed gently as Brad opened his mouth around Ray’s cock.  Ray let Brad move forward from there at his own pace.  Ray pressed his fingertips into Brad's head and tried to steady himself, waiting, savoring.   Christ! both feeling and seeing Brad's lips around his dick, feeling the warmth....it was bizarre and fucking awesome and Ray almost just relaxed into it when Brad started humming, and he cupped Ray's ass to gain some leverage and control.  Brad exhaled. 

Then Ray remembered what he was supposed to do.

"Noooo!” Ray admonished, then added sharply, “Hey!  Hands behind your back, Brad.  Are you kidding me?  I didn't authorize ass grabbing."

Brad shook his head “no” in agreement as he locked the fingers of one hand around the wrist of the other at the small of his back, still humming as he let the slick of his spit spread around Ray’s cock, still working to take more and more in smoothly.

"Yeah, you are not authorized to grab this fine trophy of a Marine ass specimen.  You," Ray cupped Brad's chin and stilled them both, "Well, now you just have to hold still.  Right there.  Stop moving.   Stop moving your tongue, god dammit, and shut the fuck up with the humming.  No shortcuts to getting me off, Brad."

Brad obeyed, holding still with Ray's throbbing cock in his mouth.

"Now, you want me to fuck your mouth?" Ray tried.

Brad looked up at Ray and shrugged slightly.

Ray scrambled mentally a bit and came up with: "Of course you do.  Hold the fuck still.”  Ray shifted to a patronizing tone.  “I’m gonna fuck your face, Brad."  Ray saw Brad was just waiting for him to start, and his dick had been in Brad’s mouth for some time now so Ray was just about all out of willpower.  He started pumping his hips toward Brad at about half maximum force.  Brad seemed pleased.  It was so weird and awesome.  “You beautiful... Swedish.... Hebrew… dirty... closeted…."   Ray jabbed a bit deeper with each of his words.  Brad moaned in muffled tones and appeared to be smiling, indicating zero difficulties taking anything Ray sent.  Ray had little time before he was gonna absolutely explode at the sensation and sight and sound of Brad taking his cock in his mouth, along with this whole fucked up hotness of Brad’s subordination.

"Take it," Ray advised in his best growl while starting to gasp.  "Fuck, Brad, oh my God, I am gonna come right down your throat and listen: you're gonna swallow some, but also…let some...let some spill down your chin.  Cause then... “  Ray observed Brad seemingly pelted by each phrase he sputtered out, and was encouraged to continue, “Then I'm gonna pin you down and...lick it all off your god damned pretty face before I...."

Brad was suddenly wincing and fighting himself from doubling over, but keeping Ray's dick safely in his mouth.  He appeared to be…holy shit…no way…he was having an orgasm right then and there where he knelt, not touching himself at all.  He moaned urgently around Ray’s cock, helplessly jerked his hips, still holding his hands behind his back.  Brad’s eyebrows tilted in pleasure and gratitude and something like being lost.

"Jesus, Brad," Ray whined, wincing and locking his hips and otherwise doing all he could to hold back his own orgasm so Brad could cope with his and then be ready to take Ray's effectively.  Ray could not hold back for long.   Each passing millisecond of watching Brad climax without even touching himself took superhuman restraint.  After Brad’s reaction seemed to be waning, Ray reminded him, "Swallow some, dribble some," and then was struck by the white-light blinding awesome of his orgasm.  Then, Ray found his voice again as he kept shooting into Brad's mouth, panting but still managing to talk, "And Brad, don’t think I’m not aware you didn't...have permission...to let it fly...you’ll have to make up for this..."

"Understood," Brad said, letting the dribble happen as he spoke and emitting the warmest smile Ray had ever seen light up Brad's face.  The best part was Brad said it all muffled because he still had Ray's dick in his mouth.  God, he looked so contented and happy and a mess.  Beautiful fucking Brad.

Once he was all done with his orgasm and aftershocks and had all he could take viewing Brad from above and how badly it seemed Brad probably wanted to lay down, Ray pushed Brad to his back, pinned his arms over his head as he straddled him, and kissed and licked all over his mouth and chin, cleaning him as promised and enjoying the face to face intimacy, the trust.  Brad tried to return kisses but when he did, Ray said, “Relax, Brad, you earned this.  For now.”  Ray then stood, leaving Brad still flat on his back, eyes closed.  "We'll work on this.  You'll figure it out."

"Thank you, Ray," Brad said quietly.

Ray walked away saying, "Ready to drive whenever."  Brad didn't see how wide Ray's eyes were in his self-amazed daze. 

It got easier to believe the more they repeated this kind of thing in the subsequent days.

 

 

 


	2. Release the Dogs - the Second Thing That Happened

Brad sat in his position in the Humvee with his eyes trained on the LT, who was standing outside his truck and studying a map with Wynn and talking on his radio.  The convoy was making its way back south to Baghdad, but had stopped for whichever of a hundred routine possible reasons.  The stop had been 40 minutes already.  Might be ten minutes more, might be two hours more.  Good time to snag some sleep.  Reporter had hopped out and was canvassing around.  Walt slept in Trombley’s place, and Trombley was up on the Mk19.  Brad glanced to his left at Ray, asleep behind the wheel, and took relief in Ray’s momentary peace.  Ray started snoring and Brad thought he was almost sweet-looking as he dozed, head tilted back, mouth open a little, twitching every minute from the stimulants – some weird battle playing out in his body between exhaustion and artificial arousal.  So endearing, in its way. 

Brad marked it as an accomplishment to have trained Ray so well.  He’d unlocked so much underlying potential.  It took effort - tough love really - but it had been worthwhile.  Ray was now skilled in the principles of how to care for his homo TL in the context of this fucked up invasion they were leading.    

Even at Camp Matilda right up until they rolled into Iraq, Brad hadn’t planned on what happened with Ray.  Brad had plenty of outlets to keep himself squared away.  But the invasion of Iraq created the right conditions to allow this other approach to bubble up and demand testing.  Turned out it was satisfying, of course.  Even Brad's deep down, ignored, weird ideas had highly accurate precision in terms of outcome.  No different than anything else he applied himself to, like rifle, navigation, observation, and assorted other skills. 

The subordination idea that Brad was right about and was able to get Ray onboard with had built up in his head in parallel with his rise upward in the Corps, both as an elite Recon Marine of whom a great deal was expected, and especially as an NCO with actual war going on.  This meant he was shouldering real combat leadership responsibilities.  Brad embraced these roles, but it was most likely true that without the pressures of them, he might not have developed his ideas about what might be a nice release from it.  It started as seeing it in porn now and then and noticing it in ways he didn't before.  His mind paused on certain images when they occurred, flickering in recognition, in empathy.  But that was it, really.

It became a self-generated idea, not just an agreement with something he might see, shortly after operations went a bit off plan back in Afghanistan.  It was rare for operations to go off plan, but still, there were times when normal fear was tinged with too much unknown.  Fear of known danger is so different from unknown.  Brad had to operate with unrelenting alarmed concern pulsing under his skin as men he was responsible for faced those unknown dangers.  But since it never lasted for all that long and he got used to it little by little, he never really dealt full-on with these thoughts all that thoroughly.  They were just flashes of ideas that came to him when he sought his usual solitude, and especially in conjunction with the combat jack following any of those particularly stressful experiences.  The notions floated in the ether around him, not well specified in terms of who he was thinking about.  Just an idea of what he might like to be engaged in for a moment's respite.

It might have remained vague and formless if Brad only ever saw action in Afghanistan, because it wasn't just due to being a leader or just being in a war.  It took being a leader in a mess of a war - this invasion of Iraq, inducing stress relentlessly.  For starters, in Iraq, Brad was weighed down by a cadre of POGs and a fat command unit on his tail.  For another thing, he had to outfit a shitty Humvee (at times via mail order from his own pocket, for fuck’s sake) and learn to work in it for the first time with his unit.  They were highly trained to do just about anything  _else_ expertly and did their best, but time to perfect their maneuvers before the invasion was too short.  They did not get as far as would have been ideal before heading over the border.  Yet another thing was that he and his men had too much nonfunctioning gear due to lack of basics like gun lube and batteries.  And god damn, not only was that a diminishment of their lifesaving superior firepower and technological advantages, but it also that made having the POG parade behind them even more obnoxious since they couldn’t even be helpful with those simple supports, the things they were supposed to be there for. 

Those were just the logistic and operational aspects eating at Brad.  The broader view of the invasion, as it went on, was that it was really a level of chaos that was not OK.  Not just the usual collection of bungled unit coordination, unlinked comms, and collateral damage.  That stuff is part of all wars.  It  _was_ those things, but it was just the scale and the continuous nature of it; it was just way, way worse than it should have been.  And command was so close to it all, but didn’t seem to be correcting themselves. 

Iraq was also an intensely exhausting war.  Again, not that it was odd to have to go days with a few hours’ sleep during operations, but this was a killer and most importantly a _stupid_  pace.  They were not just moving so fast it prevented sleep to a reasonable degree.  It was that they were moving fast and blind, not doing foot patrols, not doing their recon jobs, not moving with proper ass.  It was riskier than it needed to be day after day.

And then, on the flip side, Brad’s ideas were made very real due to the interesting happenstance of who was in his unit: Ray and Nate.  Ray AND Nate.  Not one, but two guys who, each in their own way, sparked Brad’s interest.  When Brad thought about them, maybe innocently enough at first (relatively speaking) as combat jack inspiration, they ended up embodying the ideas for Brad, like literally giving shape and form to Brad’s imagination as his body worked to square itself away.   

And then things just got so ridiculous with the invasion, and Brad thought he knew Ray well enough by then, he just went for it.  Now, as Brad thought about his situation with Ray – the easier one to have attempted – his labeling it an accomplishment was just selfish.  He knew that.  So he would also immediately admit to himself that more than that, it was really close to  _totally awesome_  with Ray.  Brad did not use the phrase "totally awesome" outside his own head, except when it was genuinely the optimal phrase, such as to describe a large arty display, or for any other situation where amazement was duly earned and appropriate. 

He might say it aloud if he could pull off...   

He smiled quietly to himself as he thought about it from his seat in the Humvee, returning his gaze to Nate.  Brad knew only that it  _might_ be good, or totally awesome, with the LT, but Nate would never cross the well-fortified institutional line between them.  No, Nate would not, even though it was true that the invasion was having strong, similar effects on Nate as it was on Brad, where unexpected behavior was bubbling up.  In fact, it seemed it was worse for Nate in that way.  Everyone could see the effects on Nate, whereas for Brad, no one knew (except Ray, kind of). 

Well, yes, there had been that one time Brad spent the day under his Humvee after Trombley shot those kids (to say nothing of how Brad had shown emotion upon seeing the kids).  Brad had spent the day ignoring his team, the people relying on him, sending them all off worrying.  Everyone knew how he felt that day, that he was being affected.  But it was just that  _one time,_ in contrast to the ongoing troubles Nate was having.  Nate wasn’t succeeding at locking it back down.

The other contrast was that Brad carried out his bullshit in relation to the men on the team he was leading.  He directed it downward, made his guys feel uncomfortable, ignored, worried, whatever.  It wasn’t necessarily what Brad meant to do, but it was what he had to do that day.  On the other hand, in that same whole shot-kids circumstance, Brad had relied on Nate (and other officers) to lead the charge to get the higher-ups to agree to CASEVAC the kid.  That was the contrast - Nate’s bullshit was directed upwards to his superiors.  Nate and Brad had different authority relations. 

So, Brad knew if it was going to happen, he would have to be the one to drag Nate over the line between them.  A big risk.  Brad's certainty that Nate was interested was bolstered by Ray’s concurrent assessment, but it still didn't add up to being actionable, not clearly over the 50% certainty mark.  While no one becomes a Recon Marine because they always wisely take actions in accordance with statistics, they do receive training in likelihoods of outcomes across a variety of challenging situations and combine that with instinct. They learn to persuade luck in their favor.  Brad wanted just a little more intel before acting to take control of luck.  He just kept watching.  He didn’t know what he needed to know, what it would take.  He just kept watching Nate and waiting.

As he kept watching for days, nothing about the invasion improved.  It just piled deeper.  As they rolled into Baghdad and eventually set up at the cigarette factory, Brad’s internal metaphor that the invasion of Iraq was a mile-high tire fire – polluting, shameful, and onerous – was confirmed practically as physical reality, and worse.  The urban dystopia of Baghdad, bombed and under occupation by the U.S., was like something from a comic book, complete with Valium zombies.  Disorder was everywhere; it was so grating to Brad.  His personal efforts at order were so core to his being, but one can only be surrounded by so much disorder before being affected by it.  The local population was really suffering.  Criminals ruled the streets while Brad and the US forces, the mighty liberators, hid at night.  On top of that, there were unending civilian casualties that they, the good guys, directly caused due to clumsiness, laziness, or more usually, poor leadership.  There would be some civilian casualties, of course – it was war.  But this seemed beyond acceptable, like they were learning nothing as they went. 

And then, rather than all that grand scale bullshit, it was something pretty personal that pushed Brad into needing to uncharacteristically act out again.  It was when Eric, a fellow TL of high caliber, was busted down to Motor T due on his own CO’s inability to unfuck himself.  This symbolized the dissonance between the warrior elegance of the enlisted Recon Marines and the heads-up-ass-ery of much of their leadership, a prime root cause of the problems with the invasion.  Eric’s taking an undeserved fall made Brad want to take  _public_  action.  Complain through  _official_  channels.  Brad would go up the chain of command in the safest, regulation-appropriate way possible.  But his men would be in for a real sulkfest while it would be going on. 

But just as soon as Brad expressed his plan to Eric, Eric directed Brad not to pursue it on his behalf.  Brad deferred out of his deep respect for Eric.  But it left him with an uncomfortable, ill-fitting, rebellious energy.  

Brad sought solitude to let the dangerous feeling pass.  He was itching for a Humvee to get under to bang away at.  Well, really, Brad was itching for a new idea that would serve the same purpose.  Banging the tar off the underside of his Humvee had lost its efficacy as a bullshit burn-off because 1) he'd have to go to Motor T to work on his Victor, where Eric was likely to be per his infuriating current assignment, and 2) the last time Brad was banging on his Humvee’s underside, it was that whole mortally-wounded-children-on-his-watch thing.   _Fuck._   He paused in the hallway he was in and leaned on one gray wall and stared at the other. 

Brad breathed and willed the frustrations to roll off his back, to jump into the deep file drawer labeled "goatfucked bullshit in Iraq."  It was getting pretty full, harder and harder to re-lock.  He hung his head and sighed, thinking he was still alone, but a sound coming down the hall made him glance.  There, like divine inspiration, appeared the LT.

“Brad,” he nodded, speaking with a mild friendliness as he approached, hands resting on the gear around his waist.

Brad glanced sideways but then back to the wall quickly before he might catch a clear view of the LT’s penetrating unearthly eyes, and just his luck, cherried out lips, like the LT had just been chewing on them or sucking a god damned red lollipop.  Brad remained still and started having a near out of body experience since he hadn't managed to fix how upset he was, and now, here was Nate.   

Brad didn’t even utter “Sir,” in acknowledgement as Nate stopped at his side.  He just stared at the wall.  He knew with his brain that he wanted to support his immensely competent, completely desirable CO however he could, not drag him down.  But his brain wasn't in control of his actions just yet.  He didn't know what to do with himself, didn't have his shit quite back together yet after wanting to do something for Eric and being shut down.

After waiting the appropriate amount of time for Brad to talk, Nate sniffed and spoke, "While I agree the status of the mission isn’t exactly clear, ‘defeated,' as your demeanor indicates, is far from the general consensus.  Hold your head up, Brad, and shake it off, whatever it is.  Box it up and get some sleep.”  Nate's tone was business friendly, and was softening by the syllable, like it often did when it was just Brad there. 

Nate was standing there with Brad, but his eyes darted down the hallway, like he had other places he needed to be.  Brad knew Nate’s mind was swimming in so many problems lying ahead, so much to learn and manage as they shifted from invading to occupying.  But Brad also knew Nate genuinely wanted to help, so the longer they stood together with Brad not talking, the more Nate gave into being present and empathizing.  He eventually quit darting his eyes away and winced more, narrowing his eyes at Brad.  Brad could see Nate actively working to compartmentalize – widening his eyes, not blinking for too long, frequently swallowing.

Yet even as he could observe all of this, Brad was undeniably in a genuine fog of misery at that moment, and it was influencing his actions.  He turned to be face to face with Nate, and close.  Ostensibly their closeness facilitated quieter conversation, preserving Brad's dignity and preventing anyone from overhearing this decidedly unfrosty moment.  In Brad’s state, his desire to connect with Nate came out in an intense, longing stare, attempting to burn through and consume the small space between them.  Brad knew he was fucking up with respect to Nate's instruction to “box it up.”  This was definitely more of a “bleed it all over you” strategy.  But Brad hoped that deep down, this advance would be what Nate wanted but could never ask for.  Brad was off balance just enough to give it a shot.

Nate didn’t indicate that he minded the closeness.  He cleared his throat, sighed, and spoke in a low tone to honor the close physical space, but also with a single raised eyebrow, as if what he was saying was a little dirty, a little not OK, “We love being tested in this unit, don’t we Brad?  Physically and mentally.  Isn’t this what we signed up for?”

Brad leaned forward even more and did not turn off his intensity, satisfied to see Nate looking a touch pained.  "Not this,” Brad said quietly.  “Not this.  Sir, how can you stand it?  You can't stand it anymore than I can."

"We both must.  We simply must." Nate said shortly, pulling back into himself, just out of a stronger will, Brad guessed.  A greater magnificence.  "Tests may come from anywhere, and of course, the most challenging ones, on some levels, will come from within, including within the family boundaries of the Marines."

Nate was rescuing himself from the pain in trying to lead Brad out of his.  Brad wanted to reach out and grab Nate from pulling away so easily.  How could Nate acknowledge that this was a clusterfucked circumstance beyond anything they should tolerate and then go right on back to tolerating it?  A little more pathetically than he liked, Brad confessed, "How?  How do you do it?"

Nate seemed a little surprised by Brad’s questions, but didn’t flinch, ever open to address questions asked of him.  "Like I said, I remind myself I love being tested.  For me, it’s sadly really that simple.  I know how this sounds, but you asked so, I’m telling you.  All our training - I loved it.  Scared the shit out of me a lot of the time, but really, I have to acknowledge to you," and here Brad saw guilty dark clouds in the LT's otherwise angelic eyes in a way that stirred Brad's tingly spots, "how much I fucking love being pinned down and tested."

Nate held Brad's gaze for a moment as his words penetrated, and then he wrapped up the moment with a weak, closed-lip smile, eyes deflected downward.

It registered with Brad how that all unfolded then folded again.

Jesus.

It helped him to ice up again, to get back to himself, to realize what a goddamned genius Recon Marine he really was, even in his moment of weakness.  He straightened up.

Nate looked Brad over from head to toe, looking a little relieved, as if he saw Brad's improvement.  Nate nodded and made to walk away, but Brad grabbed him by a handful of shirt on his chest and placidly held on without explanation for what should have been an uncomfortable length of time.  Nate didn't tense up or fight.  He did appear to be waiting for Brad’s explanation in a battle of calmness they were having.  Finally, Brad said without relaxing his grip, "Just testing, sir."

Nate placed his hand over Brad's, loosening the grip and sending Brad’s heart rate up and his skin burning.  Nate nodded again, something desperate in his eyes, in that way he kept giving away his troubles to anyone looking, and then Brad let go of Nate's shirt.  Nate again smiled weakly, then diverted his eyes forward and continued on in the direction he had been going.

Brad was dizzy with his new intel.


	3. Release the Dogs - the Third Thing That Happened

Nate came to, catching up to his body already fighting against something frustratingly overpowering on top of him right where he lay, belly down on his bedroll on the concrete floor. The weight was not yielding as Nate thrust all his force upward. He came to appreciate one reason for this was that his limbs were pinned and a blindfold was being pulled tight.

He calculated the amazingly low odds of enemy infiltration of the encampment in the cigarette factory, with his Recon Marines among them and Navy Seals guarding the roof, for fuck’s sake. Had there been time, his stomach was going to bottom out with dread at the possibility of mass murder, a silent chemical weapon, something horrible having happened to his men and the hundreds of other Marines settled there. He willed that the enemy bought this advantage with a fair number of their own lives. There was no other way to compute it. Only, how had he survived it, or even just slept through it? Since the invasion started, he hadn't been able to sleep through someone folding a map in the next room.

Whatever. Like hell was he going to go down, especially if it was now up to him to avenge even one Marine.

Nate registered that he was in a two-on-one fight. Fine. He tried sweeping his legs out from under the body pinning them but his move was anticipated and blocked. This guy had a large fucking frame and locked down Nate’s legs. Shit.

Nate turned his attentions to future dead man #2 - the blindfolder, sitting on Nate's forcibly outstretched right arm as he cinched up the fabric behind Nate's head. This other one was a smaller man, but capable of controlling Nate’s critically skilled and stronger right arm. Nate tried jabbing his elbow upward, flailing, rolling his shoulder for whiplike leverage, but like the bigger guy, this guy seemed to know Nate’s tricks, too. And…wait, was this second guy snickering as Nate struggled? Probably misinterpreting heavy breathing.

Nate had to admit, now about six seconds into this encounter, that he was outmaneuvered. For the moment. Had they wanted him dead, he’d be dead, so Nate conserved his strength and waited like a coiled snake for these guys to shift positions and create new opportunities for him to strike back. He had no idea what weapons these men had, and hell, he was just a lieutenant. He might not be worth all that much trouble if he started causing more than they wanted. Sure, he was an officer, but the joke would be on them if they hoped he would be of much intelligence value. He was not able to say what the fuck the U.S. strategy could possibly be other than blow shit up (buildings, civilians, whatever) and grab for medals and promotions. Nauseating.

But for the moment, Nate's silence was steadfast and defiant. At least he had that. He had little else worth holding onto in this war, other than the relief of not losing a man in his platoon so far, despite all the nearsightedness and glory mongering and flat stupidity of his commanders. So, at least in this most personal moment of battle Nate had engaged in yet, actual hand to hand combat, he felt he had his dignity and was fully in the fight. His personal honor as a warrior was intact as it was tested.

Two beats into Nate’s relative placidity, which hopefully came across as a menacing “I’m waiting for your next move to make mine, fuckers," there was a pause in the action, and Nate surmised the captors were silently communicating, as if presuming Nate would be able to understand their language. It was almost comical now how the military had not equipped him with adequate communication capacity to work with the people he would be trying to liberate. Nate understood - now - that he had been leading his men on a mission to distract from the main invasion forces, and with that as their true tactical identity, he could see the logic in their sending him a sub-par translator, if the options were indeed that limited. It was just like the Marines to be limited in resources that way. But it was also just like Marines to under-appreciate cultural considerations and squander an opportunity for them both to be a distracting force and to gain ground with the civilian population, both of which would help achieve the presumed overarching objective. Not to mention that if he knew the local language better, he might be better off in these situations, should these infiltrators break their silence and start talking to one another.

Fuck it, though. He would make do.

After the presumed nonverbal conference of the captors, Nate was lifted by his arms and pulled forward swiftly and flipped over. Nate tried flailing through the flip, hoping to surprise them by working with the momentum they generated, but they again fucking anticipated that and halted him. Semi-upright, his upper back hit what seemed like a lightly padded table that had to have been placed only a couple of feet in front of where he’d slept.

It was ominous that they would choose to stay here rather than nab him and scuttle off to safer ground. Nate feared a little more for the fate of his men, wondered about Gunny Wynn, who had been sleeping in the room with him last he knew. He was tempted to call out for Gunny, in case the same thing was happening to him a few feet away, but he didn’t want to give away a single fucking thing. Not yet. And he didn’t hear anything else happening in the room. He didn't think about whether that might be a really bad sign.

Each of his arms remained pulled away from him and held securely by each of his captors (dead men, dead men). He was pushed backward against the table until his back arched, but still on his feet, holding himself awkwardly up, body a crescent shape. The table smelled of old fine dust like all fabric they encountered in Iraq. Nate kept trying to flail his legs, but these men had his arms in wrapping lock grips that held him firmly - more precognitive countermeasures. Fuck, had his training not been as elite as advertised? Or was he truly up against the best?

He might have dislocated his own shoulders if he kept kicking. That might lead to escape, but there were too many unknowns at that moment to determine whether it would do him any good to try to escape from there with two useless arms.

Then the men were securing what felt like zip cuffs around his wrists and linking them to something – his right arm stretched out and on top of the table, wrist just jutting over the edge, cuff linked to some unknown thing. His left arm dangled down toward the floor from his shoulder socket and was secured to something down there, maybe the table leg but it didn’t slide vertically, so it wasn’t clear. Once his arms were secured, he only had about two inches of vertical leverage to lift his head.

The situation was quite a challenge, but Nate was not scared. Training subverted that circuit. Sure, his heart rate was up. Adrenaline kicked in, but that was a good thing, would help him with bursts of strength in this most critical of tests. Nate might have chuckled at himself for labeling it habitually as such, but his focus was sharpened in a way he relished, felt comfortable with, perhaps even felt was why he had enlisted in the first place and was drawn to combat elitism. Just exactly for this moment. And he was cocky enough (brainwashed enough?) to remain certain that he would come up with the right combination of strategy and strength and technique and timing to defeat these enemies.

The larger man had moved on to control Nate’s legs after getting the arm he was in charge of locked down. He seemed to be kneeling and wrapping his arms around Nate’s lower legs, squeezing them together. He was oddly gentle, patiently gaining control without inflicting pain. Most of Nate’s sparring exercises lent themselves to far rougher treatment. It was eerily reassuring Nate was apparently not to be hurt. The man then seemed to demonstrate arrogant patience for Nate testing the cuffs as he jerked every direction he could, and did nothing to stop him. Motherfucker.

Nate surmised the second man was responsible for the sound of metal dragging toward them, and then Nate’s legs were lifted and the table was pushed under them. The table was not quite as tall as the one under his shoulders, and there was about a foot of space where his back was not supported between these two tables. But at least Nate was no longer arching backward and using lots of strength to hold his weight and struggle against his captors with his legs. Yet now he was newly concerned, vulnerably exposed, belly up, arms outstretched, like being crucified lying down. The situation was going from bad to worse. Nate was, he had to admit, sweating a little.

Just as Nate was to begin a new campaign trying to whip his legs away from the larger man’s control, the smaller man came and held down his ankles, and the larger man leaned forward across Nate’s thighs, altogether trapping him. Then, oh shit, was unbuckling Nate’s belt and opening his fly.

This was rapidly becoming as nightmarish as Nate could imagine. It had all happened so fast, so coldly, so clearly designed to get to this point. Nate braced for humiliation tactics or torture. Recalled his million dollar training. Hu-ruh. Prepare. Fuck. Them.

"You might want to stop struggling so much now, sir. It won’t get you anywhere. Ready, Ray?"

“Yeah. You are such a sick fuck, Brad. Go ahead.”

Nate stopped breathing, not believing his ears. 

Brad (large man) lifted Nate’s hips up, allowing Ray (smaller man) to grab Nate’s pants and briefs and pull them swiftly down to his ankles, creating a leg entrapment of sorts.

But holy fuck, Nate's brain was NOT concerned with his new level of bondage. Rather, the world narrowed to just the frequencies comprising those voices. Nate submitted them to his memory for analysis and re-analysis. The match was accurate. One was Brad Colbert, Nate’s best team leader. The Iceman. Yes, it had been his large body pressing and holding and binding him and being kinder than an enemy captor should be. Brad. Able to anticipate Nate's moves because they were his moves too. The enlisted Marine Nate held in highest esteem, kept his eye on most for confidence and commiseration, probably to the point of crossing the officer/enlisted man line...but things had become so fucked so fast since they invaded Iraq, Nate had to allow himself to go there with Brad so he could keep his bearings. Gunny helped with eye rolling and reassurance that Nate wasn't crazy when orders made no sense, but Gunny Wynn didn't get it in his soul the way Brad seemed to. Nate considered, but constantly rejected, the added logic that Gunny wasn't much to look at, or more true to the point, wasn't looking to be looked at. By contrast, Nate was compelled to look at Brad as much as he looked to him for sanity.

Nate handled this ambiguity via the combat jacks that he could wedge in, compartmentalizing it all squarely into fantasyland. Theoretically. But Brad was such a golden badass Marine, effective and patient leader, classically sculpted, gleefully tech savvy, educated, unpredictably eccentric…he kept revealing himself to be so god damned perfect that it kept upping the challenge to Nate. And that challenge itself was such a fucking turn on....

As this confederation of concepts held together as “Brad” flashed through Nate's mind with relief and confusion and deeply tamped down hope and excitement, an additional thought crowded rapidly in, impossible to ignore: Ray Person. Brad had said his name and that made it true that Ray was there, and Ray had spoken and the body type was indeed a match to that of the second, smaller captor.

Nate liked Ray and knew he had some fine skills. He also appreciated the humor Ray brought to his unit. But it was hard for Nate to see him independently of Brad, and Nate wasn't sure how to feel about that. Ray was pretty much always behind or beside Brad, or doing a task for Brad. Which made sense since Ray was Brad’s RTO. Still, Nate was simultaneously jealous and relieved by their closeness. Relieved to have such a tight, effective team in the lead vehicle. Jealous of their enclosed shared space, constant chatter, easy cussing at and caring for one another. If Nate let himself think about it, he might worry there was more. But worrying would be counterproductive to the jack-it-off-and-out-of-mind plan that seemed to work and let him remain combat-effective. So, Nate didn’t worry about Brad and Ray. Instead, he found it was actually a pretty good way to accomplish the jack, thinking about Brad getting from Ray what he might want. Nate, generous leader that he aspired to be, could want Brad to have what Brad wanted. So now this situation threatened all that effort at compartmentalization in fantasyland. Brad and Ray just busted through that line.

Nate tilted his head as forward as he could to direct his first words to them in default authority assertion mode, because whatever else was happening, he was being relieved of control and that was something he came to the world hardwired to need to hang onto. "Just what the hell do you men think you are doing?” Nate regretted the crack in his voice. 

Brad shifted and was tugging Nate’s shirts upward, exposing his stomach now. He responded in a quiet, measured voice right into Nate’s skin from where he was nuzzling, “I so fucking desperately hope you don’t fight us on this, sir.”

At the sensations of Brad's smooth nose, rough chin and cheek, and occasional wet flicks from his tongue, Nate’s dick traitorously hardened with embarrassing speed.

Ray chimed in, "Brad really does want this, sir. I mean, yeah, it’s pretty sick. Or maybe I’m just jealous I don’t have his imagination or Donkey Kong balls to pull this off. Oh wow, hey, Brad, I’d say the LT is not gonna fight. Check out that boner!"

"Roger that, Corporal," Brad said, sounding laid back, as if ignoring Nate's squirming. “And don’t worry, sir. This room is secure."

Ray continued, "If you do fight, sir, you’ll just be denying yourself some seriously fucking awesome Bradisfaction, which wouldn’t make any sense, because I mean come on, sir, you've seen Brad, right? And maybe more importantly, you can feel him right now, right?" Ray paused and turned his voice to Brad. "Fuck, Brad, Jesus, so hot.” Then he turned back to Nate. “I mean, sir, Brad is, I just have to say, he is so fucking hot for you, and I'm pretty sure you are ok with that. I've seen you. I guess actually denying yourself this might be exactly the kind of bullshit retardation the leaders of Recon maybe all eventually succumb to, though I'd hate to see even you, sir…”

”Shut up, Ray, or you cannot stay," Brad said, pausing in his licking around Nate's groin, voiced with his usual tired patience for Ray. "And I mean it this time when I say never fucking say, 'Bradisfaction.' I know it's confusing for your devolved mind, but this time, around the LT, I'm in command. Remember that."

"Confusing as fuck," Ray muttered, "But ok."

"I do commend you, Ray," Brad continued between his licks, "for bringing up the notion of succumbing. Sir, Nate, I sincerely hope you will consider it."

Nate was literally and figuratively stuck and not sure if he felt comforted by the usual Brad/Ray banter or if it was all a distraction tactic he would be best advised to ignore. Nate had trouble weighing his thoughts as he was reeling in the shock of this whole thing and now the sensations coming from Brad's tongue that overwhelmingly read in as fuck yes. The purpose of Nate’s wiggling was unclear even to himself, whether in protest or thrill. "Brad..." was all he could think or say, still grasping at an authoritative tone.

“I knew you wouldn’t yell as we secured you,” Brad said, ever calmly, now circling his tongue around the base of Nate’s cock, hands grasping Nate’s hips. Brad's tongue was the sole strong force deftly moving Nate's cock around to get 360 degree access. Nate decided to concentrate on ignoring this because it might feel good and that would make him put his guard down and for lack of any other logic to rely on, it was just a principle to cling to.

Brad continued, “I considered whether I would have to gag you for this operation…realized I didn’t want to have to violate…” and Brad stopped and stood up, “This. Mouth.” Nate felt fingers trace his lips lightly, and he pulled his face to one side in defiance, but Brad’s fingers followed. Brad was still talking. “It certainly looks like it needs violating, but not that way. I wanted to see these beautiful lips while I secured you, and now, hopefully...” Brad trailed off as he apparently leaned in, as his next words came from close to Nate’s face, “It's so nice to have been able to use my training for something actually rewarding here in Iraq.”

Nate could not regain control over his dick. He was still downshifting from worrying he was in a losing battle with men who meant him harm. Adrenaline had flooded his system. His ability to maintain self-control wavered in this physiological circumstance. It was a genius move from Brad to have induced this, given his apparent tactical aims (and credit to Ray, to the extent he was intellectually involved in planning and clearly in execution; what a great team Nate had to be proud of...not that this was important now…). Their taking this control, forcing a kind of test - it was ingratiating, possibly irresistible, although in theory, nothing is irresistible. Nate further appreciated that Brad (and apparently Ray) strategized it would be a worthwhile to take this risk, to lay all their cards on the table.

Nate’s brain was in a loop trying to process all this, but there simply was no decision tree he’d been taught for this situation. Covering for the confused thoughts, Nate smirked slightly and tried to keep edge in his tone. “Employing your training in service of perverted criminal activity? Leading your subordinate to immobilize victims for your sexual conquest? Do you herd goats for him to screw in exchange?" 

Person tsk'ed his tongue in protest.

Brad spoke low and remained close to Nate's face. "You're no victim, sir.” Brad connected his lips to Nate’s, kissing, pushing his tongue through to provide one whirl, then one more, then he withdrew. Nate hadn't fought, and was then moving forward without thinking – as far as he could with the binding on his arms. It was a natural chase, as it seemed like just the beginning of a kiss. No one would start such a kiss and then stop quickly. Except the Iceman. Fucking Brad. "See?" Brad said, confirming receipt of the message Nate hadn't meant to send.

Nate was stunned from the shock of suddenly having Brad invade his mouth, so intimate and personal, tasting fresh, moving with precision and force. Nate was also stunned from being tricked like that. But before Nate could protest or try to cover or anything, Brad's hand found Nate's dick, gripped it briefly, and then backed off to a flat-hand rub against his own belly. All protests over the brief kiss evaporated. Brad’s hand on his dick was like getting an itch scratched that he hadn’t been able to reach for weeks, and now there was no end to the amount of rubbing that would satisfy him, it seemed. 

Brad spoke low: "Jesus, you really did get hard for me, didn't you, sir? I knew it. Reconn'ed the fuck out of this one. Got your adrenaline going, got you going in a fight, tied you down, tested you...”

Nate had a distant recognition that this was Brad spoon feeding Nate's own words back to him, but he didn't have mental space to consider it fully. Brad's hand felt so good, and then Brad and Ray kept talking.

"What a sweet recon job it's been," Ray added. "Unlike our other bullshit assignments in this invasion, this liberation." Ray’s sarcasm lingered especially long on the last word.

"Liberation," Brad echoed, whole hand pumping Nate’s dick slowly now. "Apt, Corporal."

Oh God Brad’s hand felt so good. Nate bucked helplessly. 

Brad stilled his hand and said expectantly, “Ray.”

“On it, Brad,” Ray replied, still near Nate’s feet, sounding chipper like he would when a mission was finally underway. Nate felt Ray’s hands and weight on his hips, pinning him, stopping the bucking. 

This allowed Nate’s brain to surface for a moment, and he recovered his resistance and grunted, “I’m no victim, Sgt. Colbert? Jesus Christ. I’m tied up. This is insane. Let me go."

Brad didn’t hesitate to respond, “I know you trust me, sir. Right now, this is my team. My commands will all make sense, in a refreshing change of pace. And don't worry - Ray's on a leash. I would advise you, sir, that it will be in your best interest to keep him here, but if you want him sent away...”

“I want you to untie me," Nate managed, avoiding the question, and pushing past the gasping he wanted to do as Brad kept attending his dick and as Person's warm rough hands conveyed a certain care that was appealing and welcome. "And remove this blindfold. You revealed yourselves to me - no point keeping it on now."

“Nice try, sir,” Brad responded, the sound of a smile finally piercing the Iceman’s monotone.

"Fucking take it off." Nate tried his best growl but failed by some measure of gratitude spilling in.

“Surrender,” Brad commanded softly.

Nate couldn’t know if it was surrender – how foreign. Even with his arms bound and out to his sides, not a speck of light to see through a blindfold, pants down and dick being manipulated by two perceptive Marines with world class skill at working their own equipment…if ever there might be advisable conditions for surrendering control...

Nate let escape a small moan. A poignant, information-loaded moan.

Brad sighed quietly, happily, patiently, receiving the information.

Then Ray dug his fingers into Nate and whined as if under torture, "I think he is surrendering Brad, but oh God, pleeeease, can I? I mean, Jesus, it's right there."

"OK. But just a little," Brad responded generously, slowing the pumping a little.

"You know, this is really working just fine for me," Ray commented, as though offhandedly, casually, leaning his body against Nate and toward Brad on the other side.

Brad replied. "I told you," and he practically stopped working Nate’s cock. There was some sound of shifting, and then the sound of Brad and Ray…yes, kissing over Nate’s body.

Yeah, of course. Of course. Ray invented the unforgettable "Bradisfaction" term from experience. They'd been indicating this relationship status throughout this, uh, encounter. Nate had surmised this status in his combat jack musings. Nate was rarely wrong about much. And here it was. Here it really was.

Nate's jealousy was a beastly and primative thing, a lonely breed of energy-wasting emotion managing to surface. Usually such nonsense is policed effectively. It briefly clashed and lost with the far more intellectually interesting arousal that held firm at the clearly communicated idea of what Brad and Ray were there to do. They were not there to show off their affections for one another. Jealously was not a rational thing for the guy who was the center of attention to feel.

A releasing lip smack sound was followed by Ray saying quietly, "Just don't get too cocky or you'll be sorry later." Ray’s tone was surprisingly daring toward Brad, not his usual kidding bravado.

Nate's ponderings on the curiosities of Brad and Ray were abruptly halted as he needed to divert all resources to processing Ray licking the tip of his dick while Brad’s hand pumped. Brad breathed, "Nice," as he and Ray settled into their jobs.

At those initial hot wet sensations from Ray, Nate took up a serious reconsideration of the involvement of Corporal Person. He'd accepted Ray would be assisting and containing for Brad, providing security and whatever else. He didn't think Ray would be directly bringing the brainmelt, too, until he felt the heat and the tongue motions. They were good. Skilled.

Jealously effectively policed. 

“Jesus, fuck!” Nate hissed after a moment, struggling a bit again, habitually remembering his command, calculating the distance from lieutenant to corporal, as opposed to sergeant which was a little closer (and all along Nate had felt close to Brad because they had worked more closely together, had to). Ray was something new and it revived Nate’s protest, logical or not. “I can’t…” And yet, to be touched, to get some friction down there that wasn't self-applied. From Ray. Obnoxious lovable Ray who kept Brad happy. Some wet heat from Ray.

“You can. You should. Just relax and wait for it, sir. Nate." Brad’s lull sounded increasingly like begging. He invoked formal and informal names, chipping away however he could. 

Sex with other people had never been a "relax and wait" approach for Nate Fick. Yet, again, ceding control to Brad, the alpha-est male enlisted in the Marine Corps, was probably an acceptable way to do it, something Nate could live with. Nate’s body had already betrayed him via an instant hard on, an automatically reciprocated kiss, and a moan that escaped in pleasure here and there, but still he struggled against the cuffs and the weight the two men were placing on his lower half. It was simply Nate’s nature to constantly test and try to get control.

Then all Nate’s internal turmoil gave way to an annoying business going on at the surface, where Ray and Brad, surprisingly, lost coordination. Ray wanted to suck in more of Nate's cock, and Brad’s upstrokes seemed to be defending territory rather than working with Ray's mouth. Nate wanted the strokes to start being faster or the warmth of Ray's mouth to envelop more, or better yet, for those two factors to work in tandem optimally, not against one another. This was frustrating lack of teamwork from Colbert and Person. Nate was assured that Brad’s hand was stronger than how lightly he was using it, and that Ray's mouth was much much bigger and deeper. This moment that could have felt very fucking good was in need of refinement, intervention, questioning...

“Uh...” Nate began.

But then Brad warned, "Careful Ray. He doesn’t get to come yet. Get up. That's enough."

Nate scoffed. "Yeah, actually..."

Oblivious to Nate's tone, Ray whined, "Brad, I am seriously," and then decisively said, "oh, fuck it.” Nate heard a zip and fabric rustle. Ray was pulling his pants down.

"Not a bad idea, Ray," Brad mused and released Nate. The same sounds of clothing coming off came from Brad’s direction.

Nate missed the stimulation - uncoordinated though it had become – and in doing so appreciated how much he’d given in. But just then, his right index finger finally registered a release tab of one of the cuffs. Of course they were the adjustable kind, ones you didn’t have to snip to get free of. More for cable management than prisoner containment. To mock them a little and distract from his imminent escape, Nate started talking. "Know what a bad idea is, men? It's to leave your commanding officer hang-ing."

Nate forcefully exhaled the final syllable as Brad climbed on top of him, straddling across his hips, and claiming, "It won't happen again, sir." They were skin to skin, erection to erection. Brad exhaled heavily and happily and the tables squeaked in protest as they supported hundreds of pounds of pure lean muscle. Nate considered whether perception was distorted in a blindfold, where the blockade of one sense led to other senses registering their intel as more important and exaggerated. This seemed a reasonable way to explain the overwhelmingness of Brad grinding into him, and scraping teeth along his neck, and leaving no sense of space between them. This was definitively intimate. Nate ached for it more, even as he received it. He ached to embrace and pin and run hands everywhere and lick and just fucking engage.

But he also kept focus on finding the right angle with his finger on that cuff tab.

"Guys," Nate's protest clearly in its death throes, "You could get into serious trouble for this."

There was absolutely no indication that Brad gave a fuck, and Ray spoke from somewhere nearby: "Holy fuck, that is a pretty, pretty pile of Marines. Motherfucking holy fuck, some awesome gaywad shit." It had a chanting, rhythmic quality which Nate presumed was a reflection of rhythms Ray was engaged in with himself.

Brad leaned forward to touch his forehead to Nate's as he spoke: "You tried fighting us off pretty well, sir, when we first pinned you and secured you. But admit it - that got you going, and now, you need this."

“Maybe,” Nate said, genuinely unsure and more overwhelmed by Brad's ambitious sensual assault - a barrage of touching previously fantasized about, a blissful moment of being trapped under Brad’s imposing body mass, cocks rubbing, Brad's tongue exploring...so amazing…except, with Brad now on top, there was pain from the table edge digging into his back. Another really pleasant thing kind of spoiled....

As Brad was grinding and slipping a hand between them to pump their cocks together and making small puffs of pleased noises, he muttered, "We waded through such a shitstorm to deserve this, didn't we sir?" 

“We don’t earn anything special for doing our jobs, Brad,” Nate was able to say as he pressed the cuff tab just right and loosened it, releasing one hand. He instantly grabbed Brad's ass and pressed to shift weight, relieving the annoying pain in his back. He involuntarily also emitted a terse grunt at the shockingly arousing sensation of a fistful of pure hard muscle that was Brad's ass. Nate smiled outright in his escape and trophy grab. “But we do earn our asses running with gear on, don’t we?”

"Ray!" Brad called, reacting to the breech.

"Aw, fuck, sir," Ray complained, bothered, interrupted, scrambling to lunge forward.

Nate withdrew his hand from the momentary indulgence of grasping Brad’s magnificent ass, and tried to remove the blindfold. Before he could whip it off, Ray had grabbed the fabric close to the back of Nate's head and held on.

“Brad,” Nate commanded. He gave up actively fighting for blindfold removal with his free hand and started pushing at Brad’s torso, running under his shirt to the measly extent he could reach, desperate for the skills of the blind to reconstruct the image satisfactorily in his mind. Brad’s skin felt warm and hard but Nate needed to see. Now. Enough. “Take off my blindfold and then your shirt, in that specific order."

Brad paused and responded with some mild amusement, “I think we are somewhat past that base, sir.”

“Come on Brad. I need to fucking see the AO. I need to….” Nate had no control over the leaking desperation now that he was so close.

“Run tongue patrols over it?” Ray offered. “Not unless we say you can.”

Nate dismissed Ray’s nonsense. There was a pause and sigh from Brad that felt sympathetic.

"Aw come on, Brad! Shit, homes, you just gonna give in? Already?" Ray was squatting and pulling the blindfold taught, speaking very near Nate's ear. "I can totally keep him locked down here. Hey, maybe I can even just sort of, like, you know, sit on his face or something? I can’t tell if I should be asking you if I can, Brad, or if I should just tell the LT I’m doing it, or tell you both and just…"

“Person,” Nate said in a startling Lieutenant Voice. Nate had turned his head toward Ray despite the force of Ray pulling on the blindfold to keep it on. Nate demonstrably licked the corner of his own mouth. Then he calmly promised, "Let this blindfold go and maybe one day you will have the rendezvous you are looking for with my mouth."

"Sir!" Ray whined, as if offended and thrilled all at the same time.

"Ray," Brad said, intervening possessively by coaxing Nate’s face back to center by placing his enormous hand across Nate's cheek, chin, and mouth, and applying pressure. “Go ahead. Let go."

Nate turned as compelled, but also sucked in two of Brad’s fingers and Brad puffed out an exhale.

"Ok," Ray conceded, "but Jesus Christ, first, just real quick..." and before either superior could react, Ray put his mouth over Nate's, with Brad's fingers still there, not yet letting go of the blindfold.

“That’s weird, Ray,” Brad said, withdrawing his fingers.

Nate ignored Brad, altering plans strategically, readily. He used his free hand to grip Ray by the back of the head to hold him to the kiss. Ray seemed reluctant at first to quicken into a serious tongue duel, but relaxed and indulged, participating, battling a little for control. Nate did not back down, trying to take possession of every instant coffee-flavored corner of Ray’s mouth, even though Ray had the literal high ground and Nate was still half tied up. Nate released Ray’s head, and Ray didn’t try to go anywhere. Somewhere in their lapping, Ray loosened his grip. Nate pulled the blindfold off and, after another beat or two, released from the kiss. They stared at each other a moment, Ray wide-eyed, Nate calm. Nate said, "Ray, as an in-kind gesture for my offer, you could show me sometime just how expansive that mouth of yours really is, to the end.”

“It is a cave of heaven, I hear, sir,” Ray responded, dazed, flopping down to sit cross-legged on the floor. He looked to Brad and said, “You see how the tied-up guy seems to be running the show, here, right?”

Nate raised eyebrows at Ray in amusement, then looked up at Brad to see him in a slight panic, an arrest of action, something…something odd and unfamiliar seemed to have taken possession of him.

“And by the way, ‘weird?’” Ray said, jumping back five seconds to pick up a thread and break the moment Brad seemed stuck in. “You’re saying I’m weird? You try resisting the LT's mouth.” Ray’s kidding edge was not really there. “Jesus, he forced me to kiss him with his dirty looks and that little tongue flash at me. Screw you.” 

“You’re forgetting your job here,” Brad said. It was a less decisive declarative from Brad than usual. He had started taking a more questioning stare at Nate, and he slowly bent down to get face to face. 

Nate felt like an observed target being honed in on. He wasn’t fully understanding the things Brad and Ray were saying, but he didn’t care. Brad was descending toward him and it was captivating. Nate could see that rare vulnerability in Brad’s face, that desire to receive order. Nate had all kinds of ways he felt he could give Brad what he wanted, if he could just get loose.

He settled for his free hand maneuvering onto Brad’s thigh and skimming up until his thumb found the tendon connecting Brad’s inner thigh to his groin, and then moving inward more to get a little feel of the side of Brad’s theoretical Donkey Kong balls. Brad blinked at Nate’s touch and Nate stared at Brad, hoping this would be the start of Brad seeing it had all gone far enough and that Nate was onboard and should be set free and allowed to return favors. But Brad just sat back up, grabbed Nate’s hand and guided it onto his dick. Sitting up and clearing his throat, he said, “Observe, Ray. Nate doesn't really want to explore. Not in a self-directed way.” Brad started pumping his dick, using Nate’s hand as a sort of sheath under his own. 

“I don’t?” Nate said, having caught his breath, genuinely confused, pleased to have grasped Brad’s cock (yesyesyesyes), loving it and wanting the next thing instantly, which was more. More for him. More for all of them. But Brad just kept running this prank and Nate was feeling less and less clear on why.

“See, sir? Isn’t that the pinnacle of pleasure?” Brad displayed a forced version of his smirk and sounded tentative, altogether interrupting Nate’s thoughts with their strangeness. Yes, this was good, but a pinnacle of pleasure? It had been shocking to grasp Brad’s dick and as arousing as anything. It was fantastic to be watching Brad jack himself off without worrying someone would see him watching. But it was not really a pinnacle. Nate half-grinned and raised a questioning eyebrow in response to Brad’s question, Brad’s Iceman demeanor melting. 

And really, despite what was great about this moment, Nate’s dominant thought was that this was all getting to seriously be trying his patience, making him feel patronized, held back, tortured a bit, and now that even Brad seemed to be losing pleasure in it, it seemed less clear why this was still going on. The fact remained Nate was still pinned down and no pinnacle of pleasure was going to come of that. “Let me up, Brad. I assure you it will be…”  
“Can’t let it be that easy, sir. Operation Night Sky, Ray,” Brad said, eyes still fixed on the LT, still working his dick with Nate’s hand, forcing himself through these motions, Nate seemed more and more sure.

Ray, who had sort of collapsed into himself on the floor as if about to sulk but totally watching everything anyway with dick in hand, lumbered up. “OK, Brad,” he said a little warily. Ray came to Nate’s side, lifted Nate’s shirt even more, looked impishly apologetic, and dipped his head down until his mouth was sucking on Nate’s nipple, which was maddeningly stimulating and got Nate writhing as violently as he could while still under the weight of Brad, wanting desperately to be able to tear free and grab onto Brad and/or Ray and just get what he fucking wanted…

“Night sky? Nipple suck?” Nate guessed suddenly as he solved the riddle between sharp breaths.

Brad just smiled slightly, and Ray emitted muffled laughs from his position. 

Then, Ray started biting a bit too hard, switching to the other nipple, biting too hard. He backed off each time Nate sucked in air and complained, “Too hard!” But Ray kept returning to biting too hard, the undisciplined animal. So once again this whole thing became a potentially great operation tinged with mismanaged skills, leading to disappointment. These were two of the finest men on Earth, underperforming and uncoordinated. Argh.

“Take it easy,” Brad chimed in for Nate, observing Nate’s face and reaching for Ray's shoulder to pull him up.

Ray stopped abruptly and windmilled his arm to fend off Brad. “’Take it easy?’ Shit, easy for you to say.” Ray sounded a little frustrated, looking at Brad’s well-attended dick peeking out from his and Nate’s hands. Ray paused in his frustration, considering. “Right? Or no? Not so easy? Really, how you didn’t come all over the LT yet is kind of…hmmm....” Ray seemed to be joining Nate in skepticism toward Brad.

Something shifted in Brad again as he listened to Ray. He slowed the pumping and seemed to shrink as he responded, “Everything’s fine, Ray. I mean, I’m open to your advisement. I just don’t think the LT is…"

"You know, it’s time. So, just go ahead and put your own dick down, Brad,” Ray spoke as if irritated he had to say this, as if Brad should have already figured out he would be expected to do this. Then Ray spoke slowly and deliberately, like there was a period after every other word: "Slide the fuck back, and give some love to the LT's cock, for fuck's sake."

Hearing this exchange, Nate was as close to stunned as he’d been that evening, including the minute he awoke to thinking he was being taken prisoner in his own quarters. He expected Brad would swat at Ray any moment, but he didn’t. He was complying readily. Nate physically heard Ray saying that Brad should start working Nate’s cock, but it was hard to focus on that while these two showcased a new and unexpected way that they operated as a tight team. 

Brad no longer made eye contact with anyone. He was looking down, shrinking back more as he shifted back, following Ray’s orders, reaching down to grasp Nate’s dick. Nate exhaled at how badly he wanted the touch once it was given, shocked out of the shocked thoughts over the Brad/Ray thing. Then, Brad flashed a quick look at Nate after a couple of seconds. It was that same look he’d had in the hall the other day after Nate talked about how he coped with all the madness of the invasion by confessing his love of being trapped and tested. He had seen that day how he had given Brad some peace. Brad seemed to have it again, and it was...

Wait…

Nate had said…

Oh for the love of… 

Meanwhile, Ray seemed to have grown about 2 inches and had turned his back to Nate, addressing Brad. Brad made one more attempt to talk with Ray but didn't look at him as he said, “I just thought that Nate needed…”

“I’ll tell you what he needs,” Ray said, now the one issuing tired patience. “Just keep jacking him off. Good squeezing, good tempo…you know, make it good, Brad. Come on.”

Brad provided no response - just right back to work, looking at his hand pumping Nate’s cock, occasionally stealing glances at Nate with that…contentment. Only word for it.

Nate groaned with Brad’s hand pumping his cock and struggled to complete his confused thoughts. He was lost in processing this spectacle Brad and Ray had become and the memories of that moment in the hall with Brad that seemed relevant now and the firm grip and skill he knew Brad possessed now being applied to his body. Brad’s efforts were winning, were all Nate could focus on. Nate’s eyeballs involuntarily rolled back and it definitely seemed like Nate would climax very soon. 

Then Ray added, “Now make sounds like he is fucking you. Like that dick in your hand is actually up your ass, Brad, and you are loving it.”

Nate opened eyes to look at Ray after that, and then looked to Brad, who should have protested that stupid idea, for at least a couple of reasons. But instead, Brad looked checked out, eyes closed. He raised one eyebrow, and then followed Ray's orders, with sharp breaths and grunts, eyes closed.

Oh Jesus, Nate was done in, unraveled, blown away by the hotness of Brad's work and convincing sounds and unflinching dedication to what Ray tasked him to do. It was unreal, and it became clear to Nate that this was Brad was getting from Ray what he needed. It was not exactly as Nate had always envisioned. Not even close, actually, but…yeah. Brad seemed relaxed and content. 

Nate reached for Brad's head to participate, to perhaps just massage his scalp, but Ray intercepted and swatted his hand away. “Nope.”

Nate was thrown off by that, and grinned a quick confused little smile at this silliness, this funny thing Ray apparently did with Brad and was translating it to Nate. It would be easy enough to just lie back and feel the fucking amazing sensations, but they came with wanting more and more and more, actively wanting, needing to not just receive, but to give. He could give them so much. Wanted to.

When Brad seemed to have moaned his way toward some kind of end point, and Nate felt he was just about to explode, Ray said, “OK, now stop and climb down off this officer. This gentleman. What the hell is wrong with you?” Ray possessively rubbed his palm over Nate’s body. 

Brad complied painfully promptly. With his hand and every cell of his body, Nate reached out for Brad to come back and keep going. But Ray held Nate’s chest down with an elbow, and next Ray blocked Nate from grabbing his own cock and finishing off. 

“Ray," Nate growled, "Unacceptable!” Nate grew dark and demanding and called on all his powers of command, and spoke slowly and clearly. “Get something the fuck on my cock – now!”

Ray looked startled and raised one eyebrow, looking between Nate, still tied down by one hand, and Brad, who was now just standing there, heaving a little, arms hanging at his sides, hard dick bobbing. Ray spoke slowly, with uncertainty, eyes glancing around Nate’s body and the table. “That’s not the plan, sir.”

Denied? That was it.

Nate felt extreme disregard for any remaining plan Ray or Brad had. Nate was now very clearly committed to a path of satisfaction and he was damn well going to get it right. Hence, Nate abandoned the drive toward getting off right then. That would have been ok, but he saw opportunity here. Ignoring Ray, Nate grunted once in frustration and then said clearly, "Brad, you take your shirt off."

Brad looked to Ray. Ray shrugged. Brad took off his shirt.

Nate started stroking himself slowly, Ray no longer attempting to block him. Eyes wandering all over Brad’s body, Nate said, “Kiss him, Ray. Go ahead.”

“But what about…”

“What, you don’t want to now?” Nate said, sharp and yet soft all at once.

“Of course I fucking want to,” Ray said as he lifted his weight off Nate's chest, eyeing him suspiciously until he made contact with Brad, then turning to him. Brad hungrily accepted Ray, putting his hands on both Ray’s cheeks, while Ray wrapped his arms around Brad, one hand on his ass, the other around his waist. There were sighs, groans, and there was instant grinding. 

As Nate now had no one leaning on him or hovering, he bent his legs, rolled and flipped over the side of the tables, deftly planting his feet on the floor in a squat. “Hands stay away from those dicks,” he called out from his kneel next to the table leg. He could see where his remaining attached cuff was looped through a hole cleverly bored right through the middle of the table leg itself. Nate shook his head and mused aloud as he examined the remnants of his bonds, "You wanted me restrained – thought it would get me off.” Nate pressed the tab of that remaining cuff to free himself entirely and rubbed his wrists a little. He settled down into a sitting position and worked on getting his boots off.

Ray and Brad had an impressive hunger for and familiarity for each other. They kept glancing to Nate as he squared himself away. Once naked enough, Nate pursed his lips and said, “I get it. I appreciate the effort. You weren’t wrong. Entirely. You got us here..." Nate shook his head a little to convey their grouping, their situation, whatever this was. "Commendable."

Ray pulled away from kissing and groping Brad above the waist to look back at Nate expectantly. Something needed to be next – the sense of “next” was all the air in the room. Nate just sat there enjoying Ray and Brad trading looks of wariness and unbelieving sheepishness and pleased discovery and every other reaction they'd brought upon themselves in unleashing Nate as they had. 

Nate got his fill of amusement from that and then took action to meet the needs hovering around his head. He took in a deep breath and said, “Brad, come over here and lay down on your back, with your head right here next to me. I’m going to kiss you. Long, and hard. And Ray, you will suck him off while I do.”

Ray and Brad paused for a blink, looked at each other, then moved toward their positions readily, almost comically in terms of the timing.

“Yes,” Brad said quietly. Ray just smirked at him.

Brad looked absolutely relaxed and happy when he was settled and looking up at Nate. Nate was confident as he descended toward Brad, preparing for a proper make out. He placed his hands on Brad’s face and feasted. Brad was responsive, seemed to mimic Nate's intensity but never tried rising above it. Finally, finally, finally, Nate chanted in his mind, working to keep from completely falling to pieces. He might be able to fall to pieces with Brad, one day. Not today. One day a long time from now.

Ray had draped over Brad’s legs, head over Brad’s crotch. When Brad gasped into Nate’s mouth, Nate glanced down Brad's body to see Brad's cock just disappearing entirely into Ray’s mouth. Nate ate up Brad's ongoing moans, took in the impressive shape of Brad's body sprawling away, and the impressive work Ray was doing when he looked down the expanse of it. Nate said to Brad, “Ray is good for you, isn’t he? Good for all of us. Good Marine, good mouth.” Ray didn’t stop bobbing on Brad’s cock, but he did give Nate a thumbs up, letting Nate know he was happy to serve. Brad just raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Wow…” Nate sighed at the sight. “Massage his balls, too, Ray. Go ahead. Open up. Full service. Till he comes.” Ray re-upped his thumb into the air.

Brad grabbed Nate’s face and pulled him in. “Nate,” he said quietly, confessing he didn’t have much farther to go, inviting Nate to accompany him, to connect with him as it happened.

There were so many times in the invasion when Brad wanted to connect with Nate, and vice versa. It happened when they heard a ridiculous order, received ludicrous news, whatever stupid thing it was. Nate felt badly that he had been inconsistent in how he responded to Brad in the field during such times. Now, he was able to fully and totally respond, and to try to make amends for when he hadn’t. 

Brad’s moaning increased and he tried sitting up, but Nate held him down, uttering a quick, “Uh-uh.” Brad closed his eyes and locked up, eyebrows arching as he was coming in Ray’s mouth. He let out a short, terse moan, and bonked his head lightly against the floor a few times in lieu of arching his back. Nate was enthralled at the sight of Brad this way. How amazing it was to see Brad extremely satisfied and happy while under his command. So much more how it should be.

Ray sat up and joined Nate in watching Brad cycle through his orgasm and back to calmness. Brad looked like he might drift off to sleep.

“I always want to take care of my men,” Nate joked smugly to Ray. "Some differently than others.”

“What now, sir?” Ray asked, rock hard and antsy, looking at Nate like he might want to pounce, like he had next to zero space to accommodate banter.

Smiling, Nate said, "Now, Ray, I need you to fuck Brad open for me.”

Brad’s body shifted and over his closed eyes, his eyebrows arched a little.

One corner of Ray's mouth turned upward slowly. "Fuck yeah. Consider it done, sir.”

With a hint of fun, Nate said, “I presume you gentlemen brought the proper equipment for this operation?”

"Lube is hard to come by here, as you know. Thank God the kind we want now doesn’t do double duty between asses and Mark nineteens." Ray was reaching to his pants, rumpled nearby, and digging into a zippered compartment on one leg. “At least, not that we know of. Still, I always keep this shit on lockdown. I think I would probably cry my eyes out if I had given this to any Marine for experiments in keeping weapons operational in the desert.”

“Pussy,” Brad quipped quietly, smirking.

“OK, Mr. About to Take Two Marines In a Row Up the Ass. And Will Love It. We’ll see who’s a crier. Christ, assume the position, Brad. Chop chop.” 

Despite how spent he seemed, Brad moved quickly onto all fours in front of Ray. Ray glanced to the LT, who nodded and Ray tossed him a condom, then opened his own and rolled it on. Nate was in no hurry as he did the same, watching as Ray next opened a small foil packet of lube. Ray coated his fingers and started touching Brad's ass, but Nate was disappointed. “Stop, stop. It’s no good. I can’t see a fucking thing. How am I supposed to monitor this? How am I supposed to enjoy this if I can't see? Come on, guys.”

Without missing a beat, without a questioning pause, Brad and Ray moved in coordination to get to where Nate would see their faces. 

“Give me the progress reports as you go, Ray.” Nate said coolly, feeling calm and smug and allowing himself to feel turned on in that fucked up way he wasn’t supposed to when in command. 

“One finger going in, sir,” Ray replied, like reading coordinates, but excited about them, like he really found some medal-winning shit to call in.

Nate studied Brad. He appeared strained, but it was clear there was no way his body was going to do anything other than stay there.

After a few breaths from them all, Ray called, “Two.” Then he added quietly, “Relax, baby." He sounded intimate, almost as if Nate wouldn’t hear. Then Ray kissed Brad's back lightly, rubbing it with his free hand, reassuring. “Gonna make me feel so good. And you’re gonna love it, too.”

Nate smiled a little at the sweetness. Brad was staring out, trying to hide his efforts to relax, to work through it, and it was clear Brad was drawing upon a dwindling well of energy, sapped but in a completely good way.

Nate said, “Hang in there Brad. You’re looking good. Go ahead and melt. Melt around your RTO's fingers as they fuck into you. It must be so hard to be the Iceman all day."

Brad’s breath hitched.

“Day and night, sir,” Ray corrected, then said, “Three,” eyes locking with Nate’s in curiosity - distant, long term, what-will-happen-to-all-of-them curiosity. “Three, and…”

Brad contorted his face as Ray apparently found the right place to touch. He moaned, dropped his head, raised it again in the agony of pleasure experienced with only fumes of energy to keep going. In a slow, flat, absolutely desperate way, Brad said, “Fuck me already. Someone. Fuck me. Please."

Nate nodded permissively to Ray, who seemed to share his thoughts, saying, “Don’t ask for it, Brad. You should know by now that is not going to work for you.”

“Ray is…wise.” Nate concurred, stumbling on the irony. “Ray, find something else to do while you stretch him. Tickle his balls, maybe? I trust your judgment here."

Ray pursed his lips and nodded.

“Oh my God,” Brad trembled. He reared backward, pressing toward Ray, who smiled softly.

"Hold your positions," Nate commanded, moving forward, going feet first on his back to slide under Brad. Ray made room for Nate's legs to slip by him as Nate maneuvered to be face to face with Brad. After looking Brad over and watching up close his coping with Ray’s attentions, Nate started trickling his fingers around Brad’s chest and stomach, and said with a slightly raised eyebrow and little else, "Brad, there are now two dicks so close to you, so close to fucking you."

Ray kept his three fingers in, stretching Brad with little motions and with Brad moving back against him, then moved forward until his tongue made contact around the rim where his fingers were entering Brad. Then, as Ray licked up the crack of Brad's ass, Nate saw this brilliance and coordinated with Ray by turning to gnaw and lick Brad's wrists, up his arms, and over his nipples.

When Nate had first slid under Brad, Brad’s face, though mostly overwhelmed, allowed a bemusement to slip through for Nate to see. But now that Ray and Nate both were working on him, he closed his eyes and emitted the most helpless breathy sigh, all the while staying up on all fours most admirably. Then Brad shook a little, struggling to stay up and to take the sensations, and he whispered, “Totally awesome.” 

"I suspect," Nate said, ignoring Brad, sort of, "You will learn to be more patient next time waiting to be fucked. I am patiently waiting to fuck you, you see. It might be nice if I already was, but then, this seems to be what is best for you."

"And you," Brad whispered, a slight smile breaking through his concentration to not fall to the floor, then whispers of profanity escaped on his breath.

Nate stopped touching Brad abruptly, gave no indication of having heard Brad, and pulled himself out from underneath back to a sitting position. "Ok, you can fuck him now, but slowly. Till I say stop. Then you better fucking stop.”

“Best order ever. Kind of,” Ray muttered, withdrawing his fingers and sitting up from being hunched over Brad's ass, moving to get in position. He pushed his dick into Brad a little, and a little more, and a little more, and of course announced every centimeter of advance verbally somehow. “Brad…oh my God…yes…Fuck, yes. Jesus...”

Brad was shuttering, pushing back, eager, trying not to show it.

“How’s he feel, Ray?” Nate asked, edging closer to his own limit.

“Like, like…tight. Oh God, sir, you are going to miss out on this.”

“It’s OK,” Nate said with a focused intensity. “I just need Brad ready for me to jump in there and fuck him hard. That sound good, Brad?”

Brad’s eyes disappeared for a second and he nodded.

“One more minute, Ray. You all the way in?”

Ray grunted and pressed. “Now I am. Oh God!. Fuck!”

“OK. Go ahead, pump. You know your objective here. Let's go.”

Ray started a little more slowly, a little restrained, but soon worked a solid rhythm. "I think he's good, sir," Ray panted.

Nate crawled over to reach for the lube and smeared it on his cock. He kissed Brad while his face was at that level, then looked to Ray.

Ray continued in a pained, restrained manner.

Nate said, “Great work, Ray. Now get the fuck out of my way,” and he scrambled up and attacked, almost shoving Ray aside, except Ray saw him coming and pulled out of Brad just in time to prevent damage to either of them. Nate caught the grin on Ray’s face as he yielded easily and rolled away. Then Nate slammed his body against Brad, wrapped his arms around his torso and pulled him up, giving Brad one full embrace in gratitude and greed, hands racing all over his taut abs and medium-hard dick. Nate rubbed his own dick against any part of Brad it ran into. Brad pushed his ass at Nate, but Nate sucked and scraped teeth along Brad’s shoulders, gleaning amazing satisfaction and victory in Brad’s obscene sigh to a shoulder bite and thinking of the mark it would leave even in all that ink already there. Then, with the most unhidden sly smile Nate had ever issued, he grabbed Brad’s hips, pushed gently at Brad to send him back onto all fours, lined his own dick up, and pushed it in easily and fully in one quick motion, Brad still pushing back so helping get Nate balls deep in a hurry. The rush of tight warmth almost got the better of Nate, as a fucked-open Brad, ready for pounding, was a ridiculous upgrade to his own hand doing combat jacks. But Nate was able to keep it together and execute the pounding precisely and powerfully.

Brad was making exactly the sounds he had made when Ray had told him to sound like he was being fucked. AND Brad arched and winced and trembled, unwilling to give up until he got through it or passed out trying.

“So hot, so...fucking …” Nate kept his voice low.

Ray complained lightheartedly as he jacked himself off next to them, eyes running all over their bodies, “Have him for now, LT. Look at your amazing ass as you push into Brad, Jesus…Guys, this is a pretty fucking good substitute for a titty rag any day.”

Brad, as fucked out as he'd ever been and not done yet, managed to make eyes at Ray, then closed them, and tilted his face and nodded, gesturing to Ray.

“Seriously, Brad?" Ray spoke as the realization dawned on him. Then he added, "Right! Oh my God. Hell yeah! But not your face, dude. You shouldn't have asked for the face.” Ray quickly got up to stand over Brad and Nate. Under the tattoo, Brad's long back muscle strands flexed and glistened, absorbing Nate’s blows. Ray continued jacking off, target in his sights.

Nate watched Ray work himself right there more or less in his face, and it evoked a smile and a thought. He licked his lips, looking at Ray’s cock, and managed to say, “One day, Ray, I…really…will…”

Ray’s eyes rolled back into his head at this news and with a stuttering breathy wheezy whine, Ray sprayed his load on Brad, and it quickly dripped down to the floor, mingled with the sweat on Brad’s back.

Seeing Ray come at his suggestive promise and slamming into Brad without reservation, Nate had to admit to himself that it was time, that he might be at his limit. Nate shuddered and let himself come. Brad pressed his hips backward into Nate, who pressed forward, then resumed pumping a little, gasping through the descending waves of his orgasm.

"Christ," Nate finally muttered, pulling out, sitting back on his haunches.

Brad hadn't moved from his all-fours stance, just rolled his head around, eyes closed. 

"Relax, Brad. Lay down." Nate said softly, and Brad immediately collapsed onto his stomach. “What’s the sit-rep here, anyway?”

Ray sat down, too, leaning backwards on his hands, legs outstretched alongside Brad. Ray gave Nate a knowing, eyebrows-raised grin, looking sleepy. “We have like an hour before Mike comes back and Rudy will let anyone past the door.”

Nate laughed at what that might all mean, then glanced between Ray and Brad, finding himself in deep gratitude. The truest afterglow was setting in. What a novel, welcome feeling. Something had been completed with his team in a monumentally satisfying way, under his direction. He needed that as badly as the orgasm and connection with Brad, and, apparently, Ray. Nate smiled at the happy weirdness. A new way this invasion was going nothing like he’d ever imagined.

Brad reached to Ray's calf and rested his hand there, eyes still closed. Ray reached down to massage Brad’s scalp, and looked to Nate, who scooted up and leaned into Ray and lightly traced patterns on Brad’s back. 

Brad was lying with one cheek pressed to the floor. After a spell, a squished grin broke through, bringing along with it Brad’s full Iceman persona, absolutely beaming, mischief and all. "I. Knew it,” he said. 

“Fucking Brad,” Ray sighed to Nate.

Now that they were still, Nate had the resources to re-calculate the events, the conversations Ray and Brad had, the actions they took. His mind took him back to that hallway moment with Brad. He chuckled a little. “Fucking Brad,” Nate agreed with a broad grin to Ray, shaking his head.

Ray nodded, glad the LT was finally all caught up. 

Brad kept grinning.

 

~~~END~~~


End file.
